


The Scrapbook

by solar_celeste



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Bad Blood (2016)
Genre: Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Batman: Bad Blood, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne is Robin, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Footie Pajamas, Good Big Brother Jason Todd, Good Brother Jason Todd, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overtired, Past Talia al Ghul/Bruce Wayne, Sensory Overload, Sick Character, Sick Damian Wayne, Sickfic, Sleep Deprivation, Talia al Ghul (mentioned) - Freeform, Tim Drake is Red Robin, damians a cute kid and no one can tell me other wise, migraines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solar_celeste/pseuds/solar_celeste
Summary: All my fic requests in one location, I call it my scrapbook.It's actually just a vice.





	1. "This is going to hurt." with Jason Todd & Damian Wayne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Visit my tumblr to send me a request :)

Jason hasn’t expected to see the demon brat tonight, and  _ especially  _ not in  _ his  _ territory. That was supposed to be off limits to the Bats and apparently, as Jason had just discovered, lost little birds weren’t included in that bunch. Something Jason would be sure to remedy ASAP. 

 

For now though, he was stuck back to back with the kid, both fending off some of goons down y the docks. 

 

The fight was fairly easy, the goons were under trained to a point where the kid could have easily taken them on by himself. The fight was smooth and going quickly and Jason was almost finished and preparing to tie up the thugs and head home. That’s why the coming scream sent him into as much confusion as he had.

 

The scream was younger, male, and most definitely Damian’s pre-pubescent voice. Jason whirled, dropping the man he had been working on tying up and springing into the direction of the scream. 

 

It had come from behind a box of shipping containers. Two goons had managed to corner the kid, his dwarf abandoned on the ground, them between the weapon and Damian. The kid on the other hand was clutching at a rapidly bleeding wound not much above his knee. Most definitely from a bullet.

 

For Damian’s part, he was still in a defensive stance, weight transferred to favor his unharmed leg. He held a Batarang at the ready, using it to keep distance between the thugs and himself as he attempted to stem the bleeding.

 

Jason was enraged, this was a  _ kid _ for crying out loud and these low life’s hadn’t had the decency to keep from harming him. He whipped out his guns (the ones with rubber bullets, mind you) took aim, and began to fire. Not a single missed, and soon the lackeys were in heaps on the concrete, Jason walked over quickly, kicking the slightly conscious one for good measure.

 

“Damage, Robin?” He asked, kneeling in front of the boy in attempts to coax the fingers away and examine the wound. 

 

“No contact with the bone, no exit wound either.” He said. It was so superficial, so robotic and soldier like it was frightening. 

 

“Can you walk?” Hood asked, surveying the boy as he re-straightened.

 

“Tt, of  _ course _ .” Damian snapped, moving to stand. He didn’t make it far before he needed a moment to steady himself, the wound bled faster. His voice sounded  _ different _ , Jason realized. 

 

“B doesn’t know your out, does he?” He sighed, the truth to the situation finally dawning on him. 

 

Damian scowls, eyes shifting gaze behind his mask before he answers, response carefully pieces together. “ Father thought it best to patrol alone tonight. I was simply adding another set of hands to the mix, crime does not stop so I may rest.” Jason has to fight to keep his jaw from dropping,  _ this kid.  _

 

“Well not that I’m slightly suspicious that you may actually be a clone of B, we gots to go. You said crime doesn’t stop, but that bleeding isn’t slowing down either.” 

 

Damian looking down, hand fully coated in slippery crimson and he pressed harder into his knee. He bit down a wince and gasp of pin as he took another step forward.

 

“Yeah, uh, no.” Within seconds, Damian’s feet were off the ground as he was lifted into Jason’s arms in a bridal carry. 

 

“Hood- put me down!” The boy

squawked, struggling in the strong hold.

 

“Not a chance pipsqueak, I need to fix you up first.” Jason says, shifting the, surprisingly light, weight in his arms. 

 

“I do  _ not  _ need fixing, Todd.” Damian snapped, scowling at his older brother. 

 

“That gaping hole you have in your leg says otherwise.” Jason replied with as much sass as he could muster.

 

“Tt.” 

 

“Yeah, thought so.”  Jason said, taking off. 

 

“Where are we going?” Robin asked, re-applying pressure to his wound. 

 

“Safe house,” Red Hood replied, “got one right around the corner.” Damian nodded silently.

 

Ten minutes later the pair were situated in the safe houses living room, Damian on the couch, Jason kneeling on the shag carpet in front of him. A standard med kit open on the coffee table next to them.

 

“So, I don’t have any pain meds meant for kiddies kid you.” Jason starts, removing the tweezers and antiseptic from the kit. 

 

“Unlike you Todd, I do not need pain medication.” Damian stated, even as he winced when Jason took his hands from the bullet wound.

 

“Doesn’t really matter, kid. Either way, this is going to hurt.” He applied the antiseptic, and started on his dig for the bullet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, 
> 
> Go support Red Hood Fan Series, for more Batbros, on You Tube: Real actors, real ages, real quality.
> 
> Tags are important, let me know if I missed any!
> 
> Make my day on tumblr!
> 
> Comments are my coffee :,)


	2. "This isn't what I wanted." with Tim Drake & (sad) Damian Wayne

Damian’s breaths are sharp and rushed as he throws another punch. The impact sends a dull pain down his trembling fist and into his wrist, the old injury flaring slightly at the jostling. The feeling is a familiar one to Damian, as it has been since the boy was four. He punches again.

Not five minutes ago he had been standing tall and strong, just as his mother had once taught him. He wouldn’t allow the intimidating presence of his angry father to weaken his confidence. Damian had done what he had thought was the right thing to do, he had truly tried. Just like he had been trying to appeal to his father since his mother had left him to the man.

His father was just so much different than his mother. The two wanted completely different things, believed different beliefs. Yet they had one thing in common, the way they looked at their son. How they sent Damian glares of disapproval, silent stared of disappointment, sad smiles full of regret.

Now his mother was dead, food to the inhabitants of Gotham harbor. His father was injured, people had been hurt and scared, his parents had fought, all because of him. His father had pointed a gun to his own sons head, and at Damian’s mother’s own commands.

He punched the bag harder, chain trembling and quivering as the bag shook from the force.

This is what he understood, this anger, this brute strength that his emotions produced. It was all so much easier to navigate than the prickling he had felt behind his eyes when his father had been yelling at him. That had been a feeling almost foreign to him. It had scared him, crying, his mother forbade it, his father must have the same views. The man must never see Damian shed a tear, that would be weakness, that would be unacceptable. 

He sent a kick before throwing another fist, wincing slightly as the dull ache in his wrist became sharper. If mother had only allowed him to receive proper medical attention after he had injured it- no. He had deserved the treatments he had been given, it was his mistake to allow himself to stumble and be injured. 

He roared. He had won that fight. He had followed her rules, done what had been asked, followed through with all his training, completing all his missions. Then what? Yes, he got what he had asked for, he had met his father. He had met his father and all the imposters the man insisted on keeping around. All of whom the man loved and trusted so much more than Damian, than his own flesh and blood. ‘Because he had not wanted me. Because he had not been aware of my existence.’ Damian thought to himself. 

He moved to hit the bag again, preparing for the impact and the ache it was sure to bring once more but instead, he collapsed. His knees hit the training mats below him as they buckled, his head fell into his hands. He wanted to scream, fight, hit something. He wanted to steal his katana back from his fathers punishing possession and slash everything that dared to exist, to pieces. He wanted to, he swore it. He promised he hadn’t willed the tears that poured from his eyes and dribbled down his cheeks. Or the sobs that escaped his throat.

He clenched his fists, ignoring the ache of his wrist and squeezed until he could feel his fingernails begin to break the skin on his palm. It had worked before it would work again, the pain should clear his thoughts, allow him to think, to breath, to stop crying before someone saw.

It did not. 

His throat was tight and thick, he gasped for air as he screamed. It needed to stop, it all needed to stop. The crying, the yelling, the disappointed looks from his parents. He didn’t want to feel the constant ache of his many old injured for a day longer. He wished he was able to sleep through the night without a nightmare startling him awake, or that he was allowed seek someone out when they did. 

He didn’t want to have just met his father, to know nothing about the man that he shared blood with. He didn’t want to watch others work alongside his father, people who had seen the man as a father for far longer than Damian had even known his true civilian name. 

There were soft footsteps behind him and he stilled. He had been naive, a fool for letting himself be so loud, for allowing himself to cry at all. He waited, a blow to the back perhaps or a demand to stand and fight, to leave until he had regathered himself if he was lucky. 

There was nothing but silence. 

“Do it.” Damian demanded. “Just do it, already!” He shouted, whipping around to face whoever was there. Drake, of all the people possible, stood there. Back from his little trip at new s of the recent events. His eyes were a little wider than normal, his lips slightly parted at the sight, gaping like a fish as he looked for something to say. 

“What?” Was all he managed, pathetic. Damian rose to his feet. 

“Just leave, Drake.” He said. “You are not wanted here.” There was a moment before the response, like this imposter in front of him was considering the offer. 

“Dam-no, no. I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.” The older boy said, taking a step onto the mats, closer to Damian. In return, the younger of the two took a step back. Drake’s eyes widened slightly further, calculating. “What happened?” He asked.

“Nothing. Leave, now.” Damian demanded, not realising how he cradled his wrist gently to his chest, it pulsing with a phantom pain. 

“I already told you, I’m not going to leave until you tell me what’s wrong.” Drake persisted, grating further on Damian’s nerves.

“Just leave.” He tried again. He had not expected Drake to as what was wrong, in fact, he didn;t believe anyone had ever asked him that before. It was new, it was new and confusing. “P-please.” He found himself begging, it was humiliating. It was as if he was asking for more punishment. 

“No, Dames.” Tim said, taking another step forward, once again, Damian took one back. The older stopped in realization, and lowered himself to sit on the mat. “Bruce told me what happened, I’m sorry.” The boy tried.

“Don’t say that!” Damian shouted, blood boiling at the simple apology. “You say that like it’s your fault! It’s not!” No matter how much Damian wished it were. “It’s mine. I made them fight, and disappointed mother and ruined father’s plans and- and...”

“Hey, kid. Don’t say that, okay? Talia was sick, she needed help.” Tim said. “This was all of her fault, okay? No one else’s, especially not yours.” Damian sat on the mats as well, a good ten feet from Drake. 

“This isn’t what I wanted.” He mumbled.

“ What do you mean?” Drake asked, because of course he had to have heard. Damian sighed, the last of walls falling down, there wasn’t much more damage that could be done, he reasoned. 

“Mother she… she told me stories of father when I was younger. She told me that I would be allowed to meet him when I bested her in battle.” His voice was quiet, but unwavering. “She allowed me a chance every year on my birthday, and every year I lost.”

“Until this year, on your tenth birthday.” Tim realized, Damian nodded.

“I thought she was going to introduce me to him, take me to him and train me by his side.” There was a slight quiver to his tone once more. 

“You thought she was going to stay.” Tim added. The younger boy nodded in confirmation.

“I believe we were going to be a family, like we are meant to be. I was naive. I should have known she had more important matters to tend to.”

“Can I say something?” Tim asked, looking straight into Damian’s eyes. He continued when he saw the boys nod. “I know it's not what you wanted, but I think it better this way.”

“You think it's better my mother’s dead?” Damian snapped. 

“No, I just think it’s better she’s not here.” Tim amended. “Look, none of us know what kind of life you had with the league, and no one’s going to ask until your ready, but I think it’s to safe to say it wasn’t a very kind one. You’re better off here, Damian.” He finished.

“Do you think father wants me to stay?” Damian asked, rubbing his thumb in a circular motion over the bone of his wrist. 

“No doubt about that, kid. He just needs some time to recover, that’s all.” Tim’s eyes followed Damian’s hand. “Did you hurt your wrist in the fight?” He asked, nodding to where Damian was unconsciously cradling it. 

“No.” He said quickly. “I am fine.” 

“It’s okay to say your hurt here, just for future reference.” Tim said, rising from the mats. “Do you mind if I wrap it anyway?” He asked. “Just for my own peace of mind.” Damian rose to his feet as well, wrist still held protectively close to his chest.

“You will not tell Father about this?” He asked, the phantom pain was almost completely gone.

“Not a chance.” Tim promised. 

“Then I do not mind at all.” Damian said, fighting a smile as he followed the older boy to the med bay.


	3. “Yell, scream, cry, please say anything.” with Damian & Jason

It wasn’t rare that Bruce had to leave the house for business, quite common in fact, what was rare was both Bruce, Alfred and Dick were unable to come to the manor for three days. Bruce was forced to travel to Los Angeles with Lucius for a W.E. business deal, Alfred was in London visiting family, and Dick was caught up in Bludhaven. What did that leave? Jason and Tim as the demon-sitters, because Bruce apparently didn’t trust just one of them.

Less painful if they suffered together, Jason supposed.

The first day had gone alright, send the brat to school while Timmy goes to work-disappear for a while. They had gotten by simply by ignoring each other. The second day they weren’t as lucky. The brat had to go and contract a head cold from his sardine can of a school. Tim, being as helpful as ever with his missing spleen, fled back to the safety of his apartment.

What did that leave? Jason with a sick child.

Terrific.

“This blanket has holes, Todd.” Said child whined, chucking the blanket back at his older brothers face. Jason caugh it and scowled.

“Yeah, brat, because it’s a knitted blanket.” He said. It was true, the blanket had been knit by Bruce’s mom, Martha Wayne not long before she was killed.

“Well it’s not keeping me warm.” The kids nose was stuffed and his voice thick. Jason cringed at the snot beginning to appear on the boys upper lip.

“You have a head cold, not the plague.” Jason snapped. “Get your own damn blanket.” He spread out the one that had recently been thrown at his head and tucked it over himself.

“Tt, useless as always.” Damian mumbled, nuzzling himself impossibly futher into the cushions of the couch.

“You can just shut up, you little Prince.” Said Jason. He would have thought that Damian-I am Godly- Wayne would have denied sickness to the very end, but no, the kid was playing it up. Whining about the littlest things and asking Jason to do everything for him. Yet, again, that was Damian’s normal attitude, the sickness probably wasn’t to blame for any of Jason’s suffering.

Someone came through the front door as the next episode of Brooklyn Ninety-Nine started up. They had been in silence for a few moments, Damian sucking in disgusting, snotty snorts of air. He shifted for the millionth time, trying to press himself even farther into the cushions.

“Clear that out would you?” Said Jason, eyes focused on the show.

“Then get me another tissue!” Ordered Damian, voice raspy from the dripping in his throat.

“Damn, your irritating.” Jason snipped. “Wonder where you got that whining from. Don’t think Bruce would let himself look that weak, and it sure as hell ain’t from Talia.” That got Damian’s attention, so Jason let himself continue: “You know, your lucky she’s not here. You’d probably get a lashing for all that complaining.” Damian stiffened.

Then he continued, muttering under his breath. “Heck, maybe she was onto something, maybe that’s what it will take to get you to shut up.” But it was too loud, and of course the kid had heard it, that’s how he was taught to survive. Jason waiting for a retort, a classic Damian response filled with so much snark that it would be hard to believe it had come from such a young mouth.

The fact that all he heard was silence, either meant the kid had miraculously fallen asleep, or, Jason’s words had done major damage. Looking up proved the ladder of the two to be true.

“ Hey, kid, look. I didn’t mean that okay?” If he didn’t mean it he shouldn’t have said it, shouldn’t have been so inconsiderate to say such a terrible thing when that terrible thing had probably been true. They had all seen the scars, all hated how marks from such awful things were on someone as young as ten. Damian still didn’t respond, just looked at his lap like it was the most interesting thing that he had ever seen.

“Dames, you hear me, right? I would never hurt you, no one here would ever hurt you.” Jason stood up, bringing the knitted blanket over and moving to lay it over the boy. He tried to pretend like he hadn’t seen the flinch.

“Come on kid, I know you can hear me.” Jason stooped to his knee, getting lower so he could be eye level with Damian. There was still no response, not even a glance up. It was a reaction Jason had never seen from Damian, never thought he would ever see.

“Yell, scream, cry, please say anything.” Jason found himself begging. “Anything.” Damian stayed quiet, Jason glanced at where Tim lingered in the doorway, bag of takeout hanging from his hand.

“Dami, please.”  
Damian made a noise, a large and disgusting sniff that made Jason want to run in the other direction, but it was a noise nonetheless.

“You know I was kidding, right?” Jason asked, risking the loss of his hand to stroke the boys cheek.

“Don’t tell father.” Damian said quietly. “Please.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Jason promised, then adding: “But even if Bruce found out, he wouldn’t be mad. Sick kids are whiny. Hell, non-sick kids are whiny.”

“I’m not a kid.”

“There you are!” Jason said, ruffling his younger brother’s hair and plopping on the couch next to the boy. He pulled a stiff and slightly resistant Damian into his side. “Now Timmy, what grub did you bring us?” Damian sniffed loudly.

“And for goodness sake, someone get this kid a damn tissue.”


	4. “My head hurts” with Damian & his brothers

Damian realises pretty early on that his family has two extremes: Deafeningly loud, or awkwardly quiet. Usually he’s satisfied with the quiet, other times he craves a little conversation. When it gets loud, depending on the people involved, he’ll either leave the room or join in. 

 

Today, noise reverberates off of every surface in the room. His legs are pulled tight to his chest, his head resting face down on his knees. His hands are covering his ears, his eyes clenched tight in an effort to block out the unappreciated light and sound. It seems all his senses are dialed obnoxiously high. The light of the lamps and the noise of the post patrol conversation only intensifies the throb in his skull, only causes the fierce ache behind his eyes to increase. 

 

The pain should be nothing, he’s had headaches before. But even to Damian, who didn’t get those often, he could tell this one was different. The discomfort causes his stomach to twist, he’s nauseous. Really nauseous, and so tired that he knows if it was a quiet night, and is his head weren’t imploding, he would already be fast asleep.

 

There a sudden rise in volume, a bout of laughter from Dick as he laughs at something Jason had quipped. It’s all Damian can do to stifle his pained groan. There’s a clatter in the kitchen directly after, the topple of dirty dishes from their post patrol snacks. Damian thinks his is about to come back up.

 

The fabric of post patrol sweats in stiff and rough from disuse. He cringes away from it, squirming even though the logical part of his brain is telling him he’s surrounded, that he has to take the clothing off to escape the discomfort it brings. The pajamas he  _ really  _ wants are upstairs, tucked away in his drawers. They’re a pair from Grayson, passed down from when the older was as small as Damian. They’re footie, and  _ superman _ themed, but their much loved material is soothing to the skin and always makes Damian feel safe and swaddled.

 

There’s  _ no _ way, on any of the possible earth’s, that Damian would wear those in front of his family. Okay, well not anyone but Father, Grayson and Pennyworth, but that was only because the men had already seen them. If Todd or Drake caught whiff of his attire, he would never hear the end of their teasing. And he really didn’t need  _ that  _ to be the early impression he left on Duke Thomas.  

 

Speaking of Thomas, Damian now realized his voice had left the mingling mix of the others. The void was easily filled but the sudden absence was suspicious. He was about to lift his head to check, he would swear to that until his grave, when the boy himself spoke.

 

“You good, kid?” He asked, his Gotham accent peeking through his tired slur. Damian tensed. A tease about his compromisable position, his weakness over a simple  _ headache _ , sure. That? From someone he barely knew? Those kinds of questions with a tone as sincere as that were reserved for special people. Grayson mostly, and occasionally Father… if Damian were in a good mood. 

 

The more he thought about Thomas’ question, the more he realized that  _ no,  _ he was indeed not okay. Far from it actually. Those pajamas were starting to sound better and better and one of Pennyworths specialty teas to soothe his stomach. His head feels like it's being crushed, but at the same time under the threat of exploding. Its weird and creepy and Damian definitely does  _ not _ like it. 

 

He picked his head up to look at the older boy, the room spins. It feels like he’s been in the Batmobile after one of Pennyworths large meals, his stomach flips and there’s no doubt that he's not at least a little green. He swallows his remaining pride before he can change his mind. 

 

“My head hurts.” He says, but it sounds like a hybrid of a whine and hiss, the pain coming out even through his voice.

 

The surrounding noise comes to a sudden close, the blatant admission of pain so uncharacteristic for Damian it stops all conversation. 

 

“Your looking a little green, Dames.” Says Todd.

 

“Oh, Dami! What’s wrong?” Dick asks, coming over to kneel in front of where Damian sits. 

 

“You’re not gonna barf, are you?” Tim says, face twisted in concern even as he leans away. 

 

Damian doesn’t respond, can’t shake his head because he’s afraid that if he does he  _ will  _ puke. Instead he clenched his eyes shut again, away from the piercing lights and hisses: “Shhh.” As loud and demanding as he can without causing himself further pain. 

 

“You gotta tell us what the matter kid.” Jason says, coming to Dicks side in front of their younger brother. 

 

Damian flinches as Dick goes to rest his hand on his knee.

 

“Okay, no touching then. Sensory overload?” Dick asks, Damian shrugs. “Headache?” 

 

“Migraine.” Jason supplies, having had a fair share of his own. “It can cause small sensory overload, does he have anything softer?” Dick nods, heading upstairs in search of his childhood pajamas. Jason nods, turning to Tim.

 

“Ask Alfie to make some mint tea, and turn down the lights on your way out.” He requests, turning lastly to Duke.

 

“Can you go as Bruce if we have any childrens tylenol?” Duke nods, setting out to where he last saw the man in the kitchen with Alfred.

 

“We’re gonna take care of you, kiddo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, 
> 
> Go support Red Hood Fan Series, for more Batbros, on You Tube: Real actors, real ages, real quality.
> 
> Tags are important, let me know if I missed any!
> 
> Make my day on tumblr!
> 
> Comments are my coffee :,)


	5. Dying Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ask: An older Damian celebrates his new apartment by bleeding out on its floor.

It’s refreshing, being his own person. It’s something that Damian has worked forwards his whole life. When he was little, very young, his mother had already had his entire life planned out for him. His grandfather had him trained for one purpose and one purpose only: to become the new demons head. A buffer in their plans interrupted not only their futures, but also Damian’s. That’s all the boy had known, his training with the league, absolute devotion to his mother and grandfather.

 

Then he had been dumped on Father and told he wasn’t allowed to kill.   

 

It was a life change, being in Gotham with his father. Things were so different there than they had been with his mother back in Nanda Parbat. As Damian got older, he realized the different was improvement, that things were better for him there in Gotham, but there was still a shadow. 

 

Even though he was no longer with his mother, no longer a part of her detailed plans, he was still his father’s protogé. He was expected to follow the man’s rules, wear the Robin mantle and follow the man in his missions around Gotham city. It was funny that he did not enjoy the mantle he had fought so hard for. But he was supposed to use only the weapons his father permitted, could only go as far as his father allowed. And for a while that was okay, but a whiles not forever.

 

Soon, especially as Damian got older, Father’s rules and methods became harder to follow. He found himself wanting to do his own thing more and more often. He realized he didn’t  _ want  _ to be Batman when he came of age, Batman was his father, not Damian. He was  _ tired  _ of being under his parents constant watch, acting like a pon in their dangerous games. He wanted a life for himself, a life that he alone was in charge of.

 

Graduating from Robin had been the first step from that. He shed the cape the moment he turned eighteen, bringing the proposal of a new alias up to his father, showing the man his suit designs. He had been relieved that his father had agreed to his new plans. 

 

The next step was a place of his own. Afterall, he couldn’t be his own vigilante out of the  _ Batcave _ . It was a place on the other side of Gotham, in a place below typical for a site but slightly above the common housing for middle class civilians so as not to be suspicious for someone like Damian Wayne. 

 

It felt good, refreshing to purchase the place with money that he had gotten himself through his work at R&D and his parting position at the local animal shelter. It relieved him to see how much he has changed since he came to Gotham at ten. 

 

The first night of patrol was thrilling, though fairly quiet. Only a handful of muggings and a small scale jewelry store robbing had him active. He found himself thankful for it non the less. The moonlight no longer saw Damian Wayne as ‘Batman’s Sidekick’. 

 

The second night was something he had been unprepared for. He was being cocky, self esteem boosted by the previous nights easy success. 

 

There had been a gunner in crime alley, exactly 50 years later. There was an anniversary showing of  _ Zorro _ down at the theater down the street. 

 

Damian hadn’t even  _ seen  _ him but he had no doubt that Father would have. 

 

The bullet went straight through his gut. 

 

He used his remaining energy to tie the guy up and notify the police, Barbara Gordon was in charge there now, she would make sure the guy was dealt the appropriate repercussions.

 

By the time he neared his apartment, Damian had only his grapple to thank for making it to his living room window, which he unceremoniously fell through. 

 

He tore out of his suit. No one could find him in that, it would ruin vigilantism for the rest of his family, their identities were too connected. 

 

There were no trackers or vital monitors hidden on his belt by his father. No worried Pennyworth waiting up for Damian to come home. He wasn’t ten anymore. He wasn’t Robin anymore. He was alone. But wasn’t this what he wanted? He had led himself here, and now he was alone.

 

And no one was coming. 


End file.
